


On Every Street I thru IV

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-05-15
Updated: 2001-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 08:22:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11332011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: A farewell letter from Alex to Mulder.





	On Every Street I thru IV

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

On Every Street I: Letter Found on a Coffee Table

TITLE: Letter Found On A Coffee Table   
AUTHOR: Kand.   
SERIE: On Every Street - 1/4 (prologue)   
WHEN: ? An AU, anyway.   
WHO: Mulder/Krycek.   
SPOILERS: none.   
SUMMARY: a farewell letter from Alex to Mulder.   
BETA-READING: thank you Janet F. Caires-Lesgold   
ARCHIVE: please feel free. But tell me...   
RATING: NC-17 (m/m implications).   
COPYRIGHT: characters owned by Chris Carter, Fox Procuctions, 1013.   
URL: http://www.geocities.com/kand2m/xslash.html  
FEED-BACK: 

* * *

Alexandria, apt.42, 7:30 am. 

Letter Found On A Coffee Table.

"Fox,

"I'm leaving.  
I'm going to Hell.  
After this night of ours, where else can I go?  
The memory of you I'll keep buried into the deepest of my soul, of my heart, of my flesh, of my loins. I'm going to Hell, and whatever can be done to me there, nothing will take that from me. You marked me as yours, even if only you and I know where to look for it.

Please forgive me.  
NO, DON'T.  
Hate me, please, my sweetest love.

Hate me as I hate myself for having let you in that dark world of mine. 

Hate me like you did *before*. Just remember all that you once held against me, when everything was so easy between us.  
When the need for you grew too strong, I just had to come to you, to feel the warmth of your body against mine, even if it was the heat of your wrath. To feel your hands all over me, even if they were clenched fists that hit hard. To hear your voice, even if it was cursing at me. To cherish your lips, even if they were spitting upon me. To drown into your beloved eyes, even if they were mad with anger. Oh my God, my Fox, my Love, why didn't you kill me then? To you it would have meant nothing but some paperwork. To me, an everlasting peace, given by your very hand.

I'm leaving. I fainted tonight, when my pleasure exploded deep inside you. Why did the Gods allow me to return from this land of merciful oblivion? They brought me back to look into your eyes, their changing sea of green darkened with the blackest despair. There are so many bullets in this world with my name upon them; if one of them finds me while I'm in your arms, it will be Armageddon to you. If it finds *you*, it will be easy to shoot myself at once. But those seconds before I'll reach my gun... oh God! Whatever I've done in my life, I don't deserve them.

Don't search for me. Don't even think of doing so. I'm going to keep my track icy cold, and I'm pretty good at that.

I left my leather jacket on *our* couch. I don't need it any longer. The burning of your mouth will keep my fever alive, forever. But believe me, my true Love, I'll never come to pick it up.

Alexeï Nicolaïevitch."

(End of part 1)

 

* * *

 

TITLE: "Fading Green"   
SERIE: "On Every Street" - 2/4 - First stanza.   
CHARACTERS: Mulder, Scully, Lone Gunmmen   
FANDOME: X-Files   
SPOILERS: none. This is an AU.   
DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Chris Carter,   
1013, Fox Productions. No Infringment intended.   
RATING: PG-17 (m/m implications.)   
ARCHIVE: yes, just tell me.   
SUMMARY: Scully finds a destitute and lovesick Mulder, and despite her feelings, she decides to help.   
URL: http://www.geocities.com/kand2m/xslash.html  
FEEDBACK:   
BETA-READING: thanks a lot to Janet. She's an angel of patience to me. (And a naughty angel when she writes, fortunately!) 

* * *

Fading Green  
by Kand

\--------------------------------------------------   
there's gotta be a record of you someplace   
you gotta be on somebody's books   
the lowdown - a picture of your face   
your injured looks   
the sacred and profane   
the pleasure and the pain   
somewhere your fingerprints remain concrete   
and it's your face I'm looking for on every street   
    (Mark Knopfler)   
\-------------------------------------------------- 

Alexandria, apt.42, 12:45 

Scully leaned back into the chair. The letter drifted from her fingers to the ground. She stared at the couch. 

Mulder was still sound asleep. His tired face showed a two-day growth of beard, his closed eyes were red-rimmed. He was curled under the blanket, wrapped in the oversized leather jacket; even in hissleep, he was clutching at it as a drowning man to a piece of wreck. 

Scully looked at the emptied bottles on the coffee table. Three of them. The third one she had found beside the couch. As she'd put it on the table, she had found the letter. The blue paper was markedwith many creases, as if it has been folded and unfolded several times. There were some drops of moisture upon it, and she didn't need any biological exam to know it was neither rain nor scotch. 

She had immediately recognized the writing - even if she hasn't seen it very often; usually on small torn pieces of paper, a few words in telegraphic style, brought in by a confused Mulder; little bits of clues sending them onto awkward trails, for suspicious searches, to reach dead-ends or face more mind-baffling questions. 

As she had read the first lines, she'd just gasped with dismay and thrown the letter back onto the table. But then she had looked at her destitute partner, and despite her anger and mixed feelings, she had picked it back up. Then she hadn't been able to keep herself from reading through to the signature. She'd read it only once, and she already knew that the note would stay engraved on her heart and mind. 

Scully was startled from her day-dream by the ding of the coffeemaker timer she had switched on a few minutes before picking up the letter. 

As she made her way to the kitchen, she remembered her morning. 

For a full weekend, she hadn't heard from Mulder. They had worked hard for two weeks, and they both needed to catch up on their sleep. So, she had thought that perhaps, for once, he was just taking it easy, and having a real rest. She preferred not to interfere. She went to see her mother, happy to find her brother and his family there - the baby was making fine, and she found her sister-in-law's babbling refreshing for the time being. 

On Monday morning, Mulder didn't show at the Bureau. Until noon, she kept trying him at different numbers - she even called at the Lone Gunmen's, but he was to be found nowhere, so she left for Alexandria. There was no answer to her knock at the door of Apartment 42, so she used her own key to enter the apartment. 

She wasn't surprised by the ambient disorder and the closed blinds that barely filtered the grey light of the cloudy fall day. But she immediately saw the curled silhouette on the couch. She was at once on his side, checking his pulse with professional skill. She found it regular. Mulder was just asleep. But she wasn't fooled by the quiet breathing. Had she come a few hours earlier, she'd have found him stone drunk. Whatever Mulder had done with his resting time, the result clearly was a mess. 

Scully didn't bother herself wondering at the leather jacket he was robed in, and that didn't look like his own. She went to the kitchen, and prepared the coffeemaker, for a triple-strength java. Then she made a quick exploration in the bathroom cupboard, but she couldn't find anything stronger than Alka-Seltzer. She shrugged, filled a glass of water, and added the tablets, bringing it bubbling to the couch, to fight the unavoidable hang-over she expected her incorrigible partner to suffer as he woke. 

As she passed close to the arm of the couch, she almost stumbled on a bottle lying on the ground, and put it near its two sisters on the table - then she'd found the letter. 

\--------------------------------- 

Mulder emerged slowly from the well of darkness that held him bogged down. A merciless hammer was pounding in his head and he brought a hand to his temple, with a painful grimace. The material around his wrist sent an olfactive message, leather mixed with faint cologne, right through the haze that blinded him. 

{ Silky lashes casting their shadow on the broad green eyes that looked at him in sad despair. Half-opened lips whispering his name. A sweet face tilting back, radiating pleasure } 

"Alex?" he uttered, as he tried to sit up. 

{ Gone } 

Mulder ignored the familiar figure kneeling close to him, looking anxiously at him. His eyes ran over the table, caught a blue flash of paper. A sharp pain hit his gut, making him gasp and washing away every other feeling. 

{ His letter. He won't be back. "Nevermore". Killing me to save me } 

"NOOOOOOO!" Mulder's long shout tore apart the silence, and he fell back to the couch, his head buried in his arms, black leather upon black leather, his shoulders shaken by convulsive sobs. 

Scully felt a new surge of deadly anger against the man who caused her friend to suffer hell. The bastard was right on one point: Mulder should have shot him when he could. At least, *he* would have done it as a brave man, with a gun, and not as a coward, with a kiss. The continuous sobs brought her concerned attention back to him. 

She softly put a protective arm around his shoulders, her hand went on his own, and she let her forehead rest on his shaggy hair, hazel and red locks mixing. She said nothing, aware that words wouldn't reach the wrecked brains. She just stayed here, allowing her friendly warmth to surround him, to slowly penetrate into his distress, until the sobs began to recede. She stroked gently his head, and kissed his temple. As he slightly calmed down, she tried to speak in a light tone, despite her sorrow. 

With her lips close to his ear, she whispered, "You will always be a mystery to me, Mulder. I should think you'd wait for the end of the baseball season to drink yourself to death, or maybe if you'd found your favorite video store burnt to the ground?" She rubbed her cheek against his hair. "Love-sick, and for that clever crook, of all people.... You know what, Mulder? I find all this... spooky." 

He turned his tortured face toward her. He gave her a weak smile, silently thanking her for just being there, as she always was when he needed her. She smiled too, the indulgent smile he knew so well, wide grin, dimples, and loving eyes together. With a last stroke to his hair, she reached down to pick up the still bubbling glass she had set on the carpet, and she lifted it to his lips. "Drink this, Mulder. I made some coffee, I'll bring you a cup." 

Mulder propped himself on one elbow, with a new grimace, and answered: "Aye aye, Doc." as he took the glass. Scully stood up and went to the kitchen. He heard the clink of cups on the countertop, and the smell of strong coffee floated through the apartment to his nostrils. 

\--------------------------------------- 

"Scully, I'm sorry. I... I... I don't know what to tell you. It's so embarr... No, that's not what I mean. In fact, yes, but..." Mulder stammered. He was sitting on the couch, holding with both hands a mug of steaming coffee. 

Scully shook her head. "We'll talk about all this later, Mulder. First, you must eat something - I suppose you haven't had anything for at least 24 hours? Do you have anything here, besides sunflower seeds?" 

Mulder frowned and smiled at the same time, the result being his hangover to try a comeback. He had to think hard before he answered: "In the fridge, there's the rest of a pizza. At least I think so. Oh, there's strawberry jam and a loaf of bread in the cupboard, above the microwave oven. Don't know if it's still good." 

Dr. Scully shrugged at the inanity of her partner's feeding habits, and went to the kitchen. Her voice came from inside the cupboard, it seemed. "You're a lucky man, Mulder. Two days later, and you could throw the whole loaf in the trash. " A few more rumblings later, she added, "But I shouldn't prescribe that leftover pizza to a necrophage." 

She went back with a loaded tray. Mulder smiled at the sunflower seeds beside the bread and jam. Then he wondered at the jar of honey. "Oh, that one! I'd completely forgot it." Scully started to spread honey on a slice of bread, as Mulder rummaged through his pack of seeds. Then he proceeded to munch his slice of honeyed bread, and he suddenly realised that he was famished. 

Scully let him eat quietly, then suggested a shower. Mulder had decided to follow his doctor's orders, and he disappeared into the bathroom. While the water was running, Scully took the remains of the quick meal and of the night into the kitchen, where she washed the dishes and cups, after having restored the rest of the bread and the jars to their shelves in the cupboard, and got rid of the bottles and of the lethal pizza. Back to the living room, her eyes fell on the blue lit tank, and she shook her head. Forgotten the fishes... They too deserved their daily share of goldfish flakes, so she proceeded to feed them, before coming back to sit on the couch. 

Her eyes fell on the blue sheet of paper; wavering, she picked it up. She felt uncomfortable at entering that really private part of Mulder's life that she never had suspected. She knew he hadn't had, or *probably* hadn't had, any relations since they'd been working together. But to abruptly find that he had chosen for a lover, above all others, his father's murderer, this was... well, she couldn't find a satisfactory word to describe the situation. 

At the same time, her first reading had left her with a feeling of -- sincerity? It was a strange word to link to Alex Krycek, as far as she was concerned. Nevertheless, she could understand Mulder's primal attraction to the man. She had to admit that sometimes, she had found herself aroused in his presence. Slavic charm? And she was in no way shocked by the sexual orientation of her partner. He was a big boy. Even if at the present time, he was reacting like a teen-ager dumped by his first date. 

As the water was still running, she allowed herself to read once more Alex Krycek's farewell letter. Despite her confusion, she tried to trace the history behind it. Apparently, it had been a one-night-stand. But a serious one. And if Krycek was sincere (she wondered once more at the weird association of words), then his *feelings* for Mulder were anything but new. And they were deep, as deep as the misery she had seen Mulder express. 

How was Mulder going to react? She suddenly faced the problem. Was he going to overcome his sorrow, and go back to work, as he always had done before in time of crisis, taking refuge in his unending quest for truth? Or was this crisis to be worse than all the others he had had to face? After all, as far as she knew, the only precedent of the kind had been the "Phoebe case" - and he had gone through hell to get out of it. The scars were still there, she told herself, ready to reopen. 

She put the letter back on the table with a twinge of guilt as she heard Mulder entering the room. Lost in her thoughts, she hadn't noticed that the water had been turned off. Mulder had shaved, his hair was still wet, he had got into his sweat pants and a sleeveless t-shirt. He held the leather jacket on his arm, and after a moment of wavering, he went to the closet to put it gently on a hanger. Then he came to sit beside her. 

He looked at the letter she just had lain on the table, made a motion to take it, and changed his mind. He leaned back. "Mulder," - "Scully," - they said at the same time. Scully smiled kindly, and signaled him to go on. 

He bit his down lip, searching for words. Then he spoke in a decisive tone. "I'm going to look for him. I must find him." 

Scully sighed. She hadn't wanted to face that solution for she was afraid of it. But she knew, deep inside her, that it was the most likely option for her partner. "He asked you not to," she simply remarked. At the present time, she couldn't think of a more appropriate thing. 

Mulder looked at her, his face unreadable. "I'm going to search for him," he stubbornly repeated. It was a cold statement that just didn't need to be discussed. "Will you help me?" 

Scully's face grew blank. She couldn't believe her very ears. She took a deep breath, her jaws clenched, a green anger swirled in her eyes. She tried to speak calmly, but the words came crushed between her teeth. 

"Mulder. That man killed your father. He killed my sister. He betrayed you, and more than once. He helped in my abduction. He almost killed Skinner, and he probably still could do so. Whatever took place between both of you that night, he surely did you an unique favor leaving that way. Mulder!" she insisted, "you've got to get hold of yourself! You have a life, a job. There are people relying on you. There are cases that can't be solved by anybody but you. You can't leave all what you've lived for during all these years for a..." She searched for the correct word, but couldn't find any. "And I'm definitely not going to help you to look for this... him." 

"I love him," Mulder stated finally, pointing out an obvious fact. 

Scully stared at him, stunned. 

Mulder returned her stare. "He didn't do all that, in fact, he..." He washed away the discussion with a wave of his hand. He shook his head. "Anyway, this isn't the point. I must find him again. I know," he said over her interruption, "he asked me not to. But he was out of his mind when he left: you can see that," he gestured to the letter. "I'm going to use all the resources of the Bureau if needed. I'll find him." 

Scully shook her head in disbelief. "Mulder, do you really think that the Bureau, Skinner, anybody, is going to let you quietly conduct that search on your own?! You have a badge, sure, but you can't use it to serve your own purposes!" 

Mulder kept on. "I'll make all the requests I can as long as I'm able to use the Bureau's resources. And there are the Lone Gunmen, they could trace anybody anywhere. And my own sources. And if they want to fire me," he shouted, "I don't give a damn!" Facing his shocked friend, he asked once more: "Scully, please, will you help me? I don't ask you to share all this, this isn't your... problem. But you could cover me. You've done it already," he suggested. 

Scully let go another deep sigh. "Mulder, it was pertaining to our cases. And it was at high cost each time I had to," she reminded him. She paused for a while, then: "Are you serious, Mulder? Is there no way to make you change your mind? You could wait; if, as you put it, Al.., Krycek wasn't really himself when he wrote *that*, maybe he'll come back by himself?" 

"No, Scully, I can't take the risk. As he said, he's good at keeping his track cold. My only chance is to begin now. I already have lost enough time. Whatever you choose to do," he looked at her with determination, "I'm starting now. First," he sayed as he stood up, "I'm going to see the Lone GunMen. Maybe you can tell Skinner I'm calling sick for today? Then again," he added with a weary smile, "you wouldn't be lying." 

He went to the phone, and dialed, as Scully kept staring in disbelief at her definitely mad partner. 

\------------------------------------ 

Lone Gunmen's Lair - 3:10 pm 

Frohike carefully closed the seven security locks behind Mulder, and Langly came to help the agent with the pile of six-packs and pizza-boxes that he kept balanced with his chin. 

"It's always a pleasure," Langly said. "I hope you didn't forget the pepperoni this time?" He went to the kitchen with his load. 

Frohike motionned Mulder to the range of computers in front of which Byers was typing away, his eyes following the fluctuations of what looked like a virtual oscilloscope. "What can we do for you, Mulder? Some government databanks to break into? Or just an universal password for your favorite hot-lines? Cindy Crawford's private number, maybe, hmmm?" 

Mulder shook his head, and stated: "I'm looking for Alex Krycek." 

"Oh." Frohike's eyebrows raised. "I don't think you really need us, then. Just wait one or two months, and the guy's going to break into your apartment. Sincerely, you should think of changing that lock of yours. There *is* a lock on your door, isn't it? You know, that metallic device that usually prevents people from entering your place just like the next bar at opening time." 

Mulder looked at Frohike with serious eyes. "He won't. Not this time." 

Frohike almost asked him if he'd installed a new lock, but the serious look imprinted on Mulder's features stopped him. The sudden silence made Byers turn toward them. He exchanged a glance with Frohike, then asked: "As you know, Krycek isn't easy to track. He never was. Would you tell us which information he's holding, or sources he's relying on, or whatever it is you want to *borrow* from him, it would be easier to find." Frohike nodded in agreement. 

But Mulder shook his head in denial. "No, it's *him* I want to find. In the flesh," he added with a self-mocking smile. Byers and Frohike stared at one another, even more puzzled. 

Then Byers shrugged, and answered: "Well, I really don't know if we'll be able to..." Frohike's look interrupted his protest. "Okay, you must give us as much informations as you can. When did you last see him or hear from him? Do you know what he intended to do?" 

Mulder drew up a chair, and sat beside Byers. In a even voice, he reported: "He went to my apartment Saturday, late in the evening. He left... in the morning. About 7 am, or 8, I don't know." As Byers stared at him in amazement, he explained: "I was asleep at the time. Otherwise, I wouldn't need to..." He stopped, then resumed: "I don't know where he's gone. Just that he won't be back. I suppose he's left Washington. Maybe he's left the country." 

"And as far as you know, he could be anyywhere in the galaxy, huh?" Frohike asked, laughing. But his laughter died as he saw the expression on Mulder's face. "Okay. If he's somewhere, and he has to be, dead or alive, we'll find him. But mark my words, it can take a pretty long time. We can't promise a quick answer. Maybe it'll take months... Mulder?" he asked, as the agent was keeping silent. 

Mulder raised his head, and looked at the friendly face, the jovial eyes behind the wire-rimmed glasses. "That's not a problem. I just want to find him. I have... all the time in the world." He sadly smiled. 

During the conversation, Langly has came back. He nodded in encouragment, and added: "Of course, if you find anything on your side, tell us of it at once." 

"Of course," Mulder answered. 

Byers threw a strange look at him. He stood up, and tapping on the agent's shoulder, he asked him: "Mulder? Would you come to the kitchen with me? I'd like to have a word with you." Mulder seemed disconcerted, but he obediently followed him. Passing by, Byers stared at Frohike and Langly to silence their questions. 

\--------------------------------- 

Byers opened a beer can from the freshly opened case, and leaning against the table, he glanced at Mulder. The agent's absent look bothered him, and he was afraid to ask the question lurking in his mind. He chose the most plausible hypothesis, even if he thought that it was the one that was the most wrong. 

"Mulder, why are you looking for that guy? Do you want to kill him, to make him pay for what he has done to your father?" 

Mulder shook his head. "No, that's not the point. Not at all." 

"Hmmm. So, what is the *real* point?" He decided for a direct approach. "What did happen that night?"

Mulder focused on him, as he was standing far away. He stared for a long time at Byers, at his honest,open face, wondering how he would react to the simple truth. Eventually, he answered with a question:

"Wouldn't you do anything to find Susanne?" 

Byers closed his eyes. He had been right about Mulder's motives. On one hand, he was conscious that a Mulder-in-love-with-Alex was to be a *real* problem to all of them. On the other hand, he felt better. Having correctly weighed the situation, he was now ready to help the agent with his usual efficiency. 

He was almost sure of what he had seen in Mulder's eyes. He had seen it in his own eyes, each day of his life for years now, as he looked in every mirror. 

He reopened his eyes, and with an understanding voice, he gently admonished Mulder: "Unrequited love, I know. Better to let them live their lives. If we really love them, that's the best way to tell them. Isn't it?" 

Mulder painfully protested: "But it's not unrequited, as you put it. I... I might have preferred that, I think. Easier to bear. Knowing I'm the only one to suffer in that story, I should have been able to make it. But now..." It was his turn to shut his eyes, to clench his teeth. He leaned against the kitchen wall, an arm across his chest, a hand raised to hide his tears. He muttered: "He left to protect me, he said. He thinks he's a danger to me. This is sheer madness!" His arms went down, his fists hitting the wall at his sides repeatedly, his head tilted back as he stared at the window in front of him without seeing the brick wall of the warehouse facing them through the pounding rain. 

Byers stared at him. Then, he said in a lower voice: "Then we'll find him, Mulder. We won't left any stone unturned. He has to live somewhere, even if he moves each day. He will meet people, even if they don't know who he is. He'll be on somebody's book, somewhere, sometime. And anyway, before long, other people are going to look for him too, allies or enemies. He's not the kind of person who's going to be allowed to live his life as he wishes. And *we* will trace any information about him, from wherever it comes from." 

He put a hand on Mulder's shoulder. "You'd better splash some water on your face, old boy. I'm going to make plans with Frohike and Langly. I'll tell them only what they need to know. Join us when you feel better, okay?" 

Mulder nodded. "Yeah, I'm coming back in a short while. And I'm going to make some phone calls of my own." He gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you, Byers." 

The Lone Gunman shrugged: "That's what friends are for." 

(End of part 2)

 

* * *

 

Screaming Red - (OES 3/4)  
TITLE: Screaming Red  
SERIES: On Every Street - 3/4 - Second stanza.  
CHARACTERS: Mulder (Krycek implied), Lone Gunmen, others.  
FANDOM: X-Files  
SPOILERS: none. This is an AU.  
DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox Productions. No Infringment intended.  
RATING: PG-17 (m/m implications, violence, torture)  
ARCHIVE: yes, just tell me.  
SUMMARY: Alex's traces leads Mulder on a painful road.  
URL: http://www.geocities.com/kand2m/xslash.html  
FEEDBACK:   
BETA-READING: thanks a lot to Araxdelan and Vanzetti.

* * *

Screaming Red  
by Kand

\-------------------  
a ladykiller - regulation tattoo  
silver spurs on his heels  
says - what can I tell you as I'm standing next to you  
she threw herself under my wheels  
oh it's a dangerous road  
and a hazardous load  
and the fireworks over liberty explode in the heat  
and it's your face I'm looking for on every street  
    (Marc Knopfler)  
\-------------------

Lone Gunmen's lair - 3:10 pm

Mulder opened the manila that Byers had prepared for him. Flight reservations, confirmation of the car rental. He bent once again over the table to study the map displayed between humming electronic devices. His finger followed the thin red line, the tenuous trail that was his only clue to the last known whereabouts of Krycek. A tiny town close to the border, on the Mexican side. A point in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by shades of brown that spoke of nothing but dry sand and rocks.

"Our informant said he's been seen there 5 days ago," Byers reminded him. "As far as we know, he could be on the other side of the planet now. But it's the first real hint we've found."

Mulder's mobile rang. He searched his pocket for it, and switched it on to hear Scully's voice. "Mulder? I saw Skinner. He wasn't happy with my fairy tale, and you'd better report within three days. Do you think you'll be able to make it?"

Her partner checked the Aeromexico's ticket. "My flight lands at 10:35 am, and the drive should take maybe 3 hours. Time to meet our informant... Yes, I can. Of course, if *he* is still there, I don't know what I'm going to do. But," he concluded with a sad smile, "that's another story."

"Where are you going exactly? Will you be reachable? I don't even know the direction you're heading in, Mulder!"

"I'm sorry, Scully, the less you know... I trust you more than myself. But it would only endanger you, you know that, don't you? Anyway, if I'm not back in time, call the Lone Gunmen. They'll tell you everything you'll need. And I'll call you," he promised before pocketing the muted phone.

He folded the map and, holding the envelope tightly, he silently nodded to the three men. Then he followed Frohike to the door.

CIUDAD JUARES Airport - 10:55 am.

At the car-rental countertop a woman with dark hair pinned in a neat bun lifted her head, showing two black questioning eyes in a brown smiling face. The vivid red of her suit made a bright splash of color in the shaded corner of the airport. "Si, señor?"

"Mulder. I reserved a car from Washington..." he searched his inner pocket and produced his copy of the contract, "a Jeep. I'm going to La Rosita. It's close to the border," he began to explain.

"Oh, yes, Mister Mulder, I know the place. It's a small town. Do you know the way? Do you need a roadmap?" the sunny voice inquired, as the woman opened a file and produced the rental papers.

"Well, I have one here," the agent replied, unzipping the side-pocket of his carry-on. She took a look at it.

"I think it would be better to use this one," she advised him. She drew one from a pile near her hand. "It's more detailed, and you'll have to take secondary roads to reach La Rosita. Let me show you." She unfolded the new map, flattened the creases, and pointed with a crimson nail. Mulder bent to follow the explanation. "The airport's here," she tapped on the map. "You must take the main road north, and then leave it here," she pointed a crossing, "and turn east. At the next fork, you'll find the road to La Rosita. It's rather a kind of track," she seemed to apologize. "It's only 50 kilometers from the fork." She made a quick calculation and translated, "About 30 miles. But the road is really bad."

As Mulder folded the map back to put it in his bag, she pushed the form for him to sign across the countertop. While he complied she shyly asked, "Señor? You should pay attention up there. I mean, this is a border town, do you understand? It's not very... quiet. It even can be dangerous. Of course," she stammered under the unreadable grey-green eyes, "this is none of my business. I beg your pardon, Sir." She parted the paper layers, gave him the original, and filed the carbon copy away.

The American grinned at her, "Don't mention it. Kind of you to care. But," he whispered, "I'm a big boy! Oh, where can I change money, please?"

"Change? On the right hand as you leave the main hall. You'll see a yellow sign that reads 'Cambios'. There's a cashpoint." She gave him the keys and a portfolio. "Your car is on the parking lot, in front of the B gate. Have a pleasant journey, Señor Mulder," she concluded with a bright smile.

Road to La Rosita - 13:15

Mulder stopped the car on the side of the road, under a traffic sign which read, "La Rosita. 10 km". He sighed, his bare forearms flat on the wheel. He took off his sunglasses, rubbed his forehead and his tired eyes, then he unbuckled his seat-belt and opened the door to stretch his long legs outside. The white-hot air swamped his body at once. He hadn't even gotten out of the air-conditioned car, and his shirt was already soaked with sweat.

The courteous lady at the car-rental had been right. The road was in a bad state. And if La Rosita proved to be as much a town as that track was a road, the expedition looked at least hazardous, if not worse. What the hell had Alex come to search for here? The Lone Gunmen had double-checked all their datas, and there wasn't the slightest trace of conspiracy here: no hidden military base, no faked factories, no misused warehouses, not even an entrenched mafia boss! Just a bordertown, with more slums and sleazy bars than honest grocers. Traffic of all kinds, but nothing on a planetary level. So what?

Mulder extracted his body aching with cramps from the Jeep and took a few steps, stretching his arms and his painful back. He reached for the bottle of water he had purchased at the airport and pouted at the less than half an inch left in the bottom. He contented himself with a long sip, making it swirl in his mouth before swallowing. He licked in vain at his still dry lips. He shrugged and returned to the driver's seat, to find it already burning. With a litany of profanities, he put his sunglasses back on and slammed the door shut, before turning the ignition key. The song of the air-conditioning began to play again. He sneezed.

La Rosita. "La Casa Roja" - 13:45

Mulder brushed away the wood-beaded curtain and entered the small bar, carrying his shoulder bag, his jacket on his arm. He nodded to the old man behind the countertop. Around a table near the entrance four unshaven faces lifted as one, their owners momentarily leaving the game of dominos they were engaged in. In the far corner an antique juke-box gleamed with flickering neon. An old Indian woman sat beside it, motionless, seeming unaware of what surrounded her.

Mulder reached the countertop and asked the bartender, "Can I order lunch here?" He was ready to face insults, spit, guns, anything that could fit this post-apocalyptic western atmosphere. Maybe this is why the answer surprised him.

"Yes, Sir. Of course. What do you wish to eat? The special is beef stew, and we have tortillas, or enchiladas. Or I can make you a sandwich or a hamburger. What would you like?"

The agent opted for the enchiladas. The owner showed him to a table near the countertop and asked, "What do you want to drink? We have Mexican beer, and American too."

As he put his bag on one of the chairs, Mulder said, "Mexican will be okay." He sat, and the Indian woman, silently summoned, disappeared into what had to be the kitchen, to come back with a red checked cloth and a loaded tray. She laid the clean napkin on the small table, then set the dishes in front of him. She finally uncapped a bottle of beer and put it beside his glass. She left again, without a word or a sign.

Mulder filled his glass, and drank the cold beer with genuine pleasure. The primal feeling in his throat erased a good deal of the tiredness that had made his limbs numb. He greeted the bartender that brought his meal with a wide grin. The spicy smell made his stomach rumble. The old man smiled in return to him, a sympathetic grin. The FBI agent thought that maybe his visit to La Rosita wasn't going to be that difficult, after all. He munched on his first mouthful of enchiladas, wondering if Alex had come to the same place, seen the same decor, met the same smiles. And he felt his heart sink.

He finished his lunch with a strong and tasty coffee, nothing like the kind he usually poured from the Bureau's coffeemaker. He searched his wallet for some notes to pay the bill, which was extraordinarily reasonable. As he sipped at his coffee, he wondered if he could ask for his informant here, but he didn't want to push his luck. It was terra incognita to him. After a glimpse at the note that Byers had written for him, he just asked his host for the district he had to find. The old man cocked his head with some uneasiness.

"El Sanctuario? Si, Señor. This is at the other side of the town. But it's not a very safe place. At least, you should avoid it at night. If you go now, you'll just have to take care." He took in Mulder's build and muscular body. With a polite cough he added, "I suppose you are a kind of policeman, or something like that. Anyway you seem trained for the kind of encounters you can have there. But, believe me, Señor, better to be back before pitch-dark. If you need a room," he suggested, "you can stay here. We have vacant ones."

Following the directions the bartender had given him, Mulder drove to El Sanctuario where he hoped to unearth Byers' informant. He hadn't turned on the air-conditioning, preferring to avoid the shock of changing temperatures. The nearly decent streets gradually turned to grubby alleys, running between once white-washed houses that gave way slowly to slums covered in corrugated iron roofs; crumbling walls gave a view of a rare and dry vegetation among piles of waste and pebbles. Nobody was to be found in the 'streets' but for some stray raw-boned dogs - siesta time, probably. It took a gringo loco to roam the burning streets at that time of day.

The dusty Jeep at last reached a sun-beaten square, with a Spanish-colonial style church. In contrast with the misery around, the building's walls and bell-tower were freshly white-washed. Mulder parked the car, and got out to make his way toward the dark oak gates. He pushed the door open and heard the creaking of its hinges echoing through the empty place. He walked down the middle aisle between the rows of black benches, welcoming the freshness of the shaded nave, his nose wrinkling at the mixed scents of wax, incense and faded flowers. He stopped at the foot of the altar, wondering at his next move.

The answer came from his left side. A door opened, and a priest appeared. Seeing the confused face he asked warmly, "Si, Señor? May I help you?"

Mulder thought that he didn't need any badge here. His nationality was obvious to everyone. A good thing, as his Spanish was close to nil. "Hi, Father. I'm looking for a man. I was told I could find him close to here, in a street called, huh," he tried to pronounce the words written on his notebook as well as he could, "Calle San Miguel. At a place named" - one more try - "La Stella De Plata". Mulder's eyebrows raised, as the priest's features darkened.

His voice had clearly gotten several degrees colder. "I beg your pardon, Señor, *did* you say 'La Stella De Plata'?" Ill at ease, Mulder showed the note as a way of apologizing. The churchman hesitated, then stared into Mulder's eyes. He seemed to make up his mind and asked in a softer tone, "Would it be indiscreet of me to ask who the man you want to meet is?"

The FBI agent wavered but decided that it was probably the least dangerous help he could find. "Juan Cortador," he answered. The priest's face suddenly relaxed and Mulder did the same. "Can you show me the way?"

"Yes, of course. I didn't think of Juan at first. He's a good man, really. You see, there's so much misery here," his hand gestured around them, picturing the neighborhood. "Juan is a former physician. He had had some problems, years ago. But now he lives here, and he helps. A lot. You must forgive me for my reaction, Señor, when you talked of 'La Stella'. This is a, hem, a house of pleasure. But the *landlady* is lodging Juan." He crossed himself. "God will forgive her a good deal for this, I guess. Come on, Señor," he took hold of Mulder's arm, "I will show you there."

"La Stella De Plata" - 15:48

The padre left Mulder in front of a flaking door that had once been painted in a turquoise blue but now displayed its rotten wood instead. "Tell them immediately that you have come to see Juan," he advised. "I don't know what you're looking for, Señor, but I wish you good luck." He squeezed the American's shoulder in an encouraging gesture. Mulder looked at the blurred black silhouette which dissolved in the rays of the blazing sun. He wondered what the priest would have thought of 'what he was looking for'. In his mind, a pair of broad green eyes sparkled mischievously, fine lips parted in a silent promise. He closed his own eyes for a short while.

He shook himself and knocked at the old door.

He was about to knock again when the afternoon silence was disrupted by a shuffling sound. The door swung inwards and from the shadow which hid her owner a hoarse voice uttered, "Si?"

Mulder shaded his eyes with a raised hand, frowning, and asked, "Señor Juan Cortador, please?" He felt, if he didn't see, that he was checked from head to toe. Eventually the door opened wider to let him in and he entered the house. The door closed behind him, leaving him blind from the sun oustide. He waited for his eyes to get used to the darkness, to find himself in a narrow corridor, between dirty yellow-brown walls whose paint peeled off in many places. His hostess was a stout woman, drapped in improbable layers of red and black laces, shawls and gowns. Her heavy face was bare of any make-up, and her sleepy look and disheveled black hair clearly said it was her time of rest. Without trying to practice her english that she kept for her consumers, she just motioned him to follow her.

They climbed a staircase, the same yellow-brown color that seemed to cover the whole place. On the second floor she gestured to the farthest door, at the end of the corridor. Then she turned on her heels, still remaining silent, and disappeared behind another door. Mulder shrugged and strode to the door he had been shown. He knocked sharply and asked, "Mister Juan Cortador?"

The rumble of a chair was followed by a rasping voice. "What do you want?"

"I'm Fox Mulder. I was sent by..." He couldn't finish his sentence. The door opened swiftly and an arm pulled him inside. The door closed behind him.

"Agent Mulder! You're John's friend. I was waiting for you. Come on, sit down." The man drew up a wicker chair for his guest, before sitting on his mattress. He was in his fifties but the earlier 'problems' the priest had signalled had left many wrinkles on his face. Mulder wondered if Dr. Cortador still drank. But his hands were steady. And so was the gaze that inspected him inquisitively. "Do you want to drink something? I have orange juice here," he indicated an antique fridge. "Or some coffee?"

Mulder refused with a wave of his hand, thanking him with a smile. The room was small but cleaner than the rest of the house. A few books on a makeshift shelf, a pile of neatly folded laundry on the table beside a transistor. On the wall, a few framed photographs, family ones it seemed. On the other wall, near an old closet another frame contained a certificate, probably his medical degree, somewhat out of place in the modest room. A white porcelain sink completed the furniture. The agent turned his attention back to the man. He matched the room, his white pants and shirt worn, but clean.

"So, did you see Alex Krycek?"

"Not under that name." Juan Cortador sighed. "But, yes I saw him, the poor boy. My God!"

Mulder was startled. He wasn't used to hear about Alex in this way. "What do you mean?" he asked rudely. And in a rush of anguish, "Was he hurt? Is he..." He stopped, biting his lip. Juan raised his eyes to meet Mulder's gaze.

"Yes, he was hurt. Badly. But he's alive," he hurried at the upset look. "At least, he was when he left the clinic. It was six days ago. Yes, he left on Wednesday." He shook his head to mark his disagreement. "He should have stayed here several weeks more, or at least a fifteen days. But when I came that morning for my rounds, Consuelo told me that he had left. Just like that."

"Are you sure?" Mulder asked in a choky voice. "Did he sign his discharge? Maybe somebody came to take him..."

Juan shook his head. "A discharge. And what else? This isn't Washington here, my friend. No, Consuelo told me he left. Thanked her for her kindness, even kissed her goodbye. He was alone. My idea is that the man doesn't like hospitals too much, huh?"

Mulder rubbed his temple. Then he inquired, "What kind of injuries did Krycek suffer? Shooting?"

Juan shook his head once again. "Beating. I mean thorough thrashing. Torture. And rape." He shut up, staring at Mulder whose face had turned white as a sheet. "I'm sorry. Is he your partner? A friend?"

Mulder stammered. "Sort of. Both, in a way." He took a deep breath. "Any drugs? He can be difficult to overpower." Facing the silence of the physician, he asked again, "What?"

"I'm afraid he was fully conscious. The whole time." To escape Mulder's injured look, he stood up, went to his closet, and took a file out of it. He held it out to Mulder. "Do you want to read his medical file? Only if you're sure you want to know." Mulder took hold of the file with a shaky hand. The cover bore a date - eleven days ago, and a name - Wilhelm Renard. But he returned it to the physician after a quick look.

"I can't read Spanish. You tell me." His jaws clenched, almost audibly.

Juan Cortador stared at him in discomfort. Shrugging, he began:

"His face was okay aside from a few cuts. And his right arm was intact - besides some light bruises. Several broken ribs on the left side. Only cracked ones on the right. As your friend's wearing a prosthetic arm, it seems his assailant took care not to injure his good limb. Strange. His legs," he checked the sheets, "broken fibula on the left side. Severe cuts on both thighs, on posterior and internal sides. Multiple marks of whipping - probably from a belt - on chest, belly, anterior side of thighs. More deep cuts on the back. Bruises everywhere, of course. Fist and foot marks. Traces of cigarettes burns... And definitely the effects of rape. Or at least of very rough anal intercourse."

He raised his head and asked in an even voice, "Do you know if Mister Renard, or whatever you call him, is into this kind of thing, I mean, as a habit? His body bore many old scars."

Mulder had curled up with his face hidden in his hands; he was rocking in his chair. Choking with tears, he mumbled between his fingers, "No, Doctor. Alex isn't into this *kind of thing*. The old scars... He's kind of a soldier. He has been in many fights." He jumped suddenly to his feet and, clasping Juan's shoulders, he shook him violently. "Who?! For God's sake, *who* did this to him? Did he tell you anything? Did he give you a name? Have you any idea? Jeez! I can't even imagine him letting somebody get close enough to hit him once! So what?" He showed the report.

Juan Cortador closed the file and took hold of Mulder's wrist without a word, pressing it in a soothing gesture. "Calm down, agent Mulder. Your friend didn't tell me anything. I asked but he would just lie there, leaning against his pillow, switching off. But maybe I have a clue, although it doesn't really fit what you're telling me about his personality. Unless he went through some major changes recently." His eyes questioned Mulder keenly.

The agent's ravaged face was an open book. He managed to speak. "Your idea? Who? And why?"

The physician shrugged. "Why? If I'm right, only your friend can answer that question. Who? There are many people in this area, ready to do anything for money. I saw injuries like those before. That kind of *job* is well paid. Strangely enough your friend was found a few steps away from the clinic. There was very little blood there, and anyway, nobody heard anything. I know the people around here, they would have talked to *me*. It seems that somebody brought him there to be sure he would be taken care of. This is pretty unusual."

"So? Give me a name, if you can. I won't mention you. And I can be pretty persuasive too, believe me." Mulder's eyes had gained a dangerous flame that Cortador disliked. But he could understand. He hesitated, then said:

"Pepe Goncalves. People here call him 'Cobra'. You may find him on the other side of El Sanctuario. His headquarters is a bar, 'La Isola Grande'. It opens only at night and it's a really dangerous place, even for a professional such as yourself. I can't go there. They leave me alone, as long as I don't *invade* their territory. After all," he chuckled without any joy, "they need me to repair the damage. I guess you couldn't bring any weapons?" He went back to his closet and took from it an old Browning. "I really *hate* this sort of thing, believe me, but I can't let you go there naked as a worm."

Mulder took hold of the gun and checked it. He really hoped he wouldn't have to use it. He didn't think he could rely upon it, but he slipped it into his waistband anyway. Since he had no jacket, he had to pull out his shirt-tails in order to hide it. He held out his hand to Juan Cortador and shook the physician's without a word.

El Sanctuario - 10:45 pm

Mulder stopped in front of 'La Isola Grande'. The night was slightly fresher and he could stand his jacket. It was better, as his shirt-tails could have slowed him down in an emergency.

He stared at the front of the bar. He wasn't afraid, even if his instincts were screaming at him that the whole place was nothing but a scorpions'nest. He was surprised not to experience any real anger. In fact he felt quite anaesthetized inside. There was a sort of broad icy hole, right in the middle of his chest. And the cold steel in the small of his back seemed to him more alive than all the rest of his body.

He caught sight of a crumpled shape under the half broken glass of the bar's window. He walked right to it, grasped a dirty collar, and raised the wreck to his feet. Holding him tight, he pushed the filthy cheek against an edge of cut glass. "Cobra?" A motion of his head clearly showed the man what he wanted. The drunkard tried to avoid the cutting glass and to turn his head to protest, but what he saw in the American's eyes dissuaded him at once. He lifted a shaky hand and indicated a man in the red light, sitting alone at a table on the left side of the room, under a half-torn corrida poster. Mulder nodded and let go of him. The man drifted noiselessly to the ground, as sucked into it.

Mulder quickly checked the surrounding darkness. The street was empty but for the drunken man at his feet. He peered through the window. The only other customers were united near the countertop around what looked like a game of dice. He decided to operate in the most direct way, betting on speed, not giving them time to think. He casually entered the bar, leaving the door half open, and went directly to Pepe Goncalves who was having a private conversation with his bottle of tequila. He took care to keep his back to the wall, facing the countertop. He sat at the table in a single swift movement and asked in a low voice, "Cobra? A job for you."

The man jerked, but became motionless at once, as he felt the barrel pushing into his ribs. "Outside. Okay?" Mulder granted him his most seductive smile. Dead cold, the man nodded discreetly. They both rose and Mulder accompanied him to the door, a friendly arm encircling the bony shoulders. If the other consumers noticed anything, they didn't show it. Nobody moved.

Mulder dragged Pepe Goncalves along the street, until they lost sight of the red haze emanating from 'La Isola Grande'. He found a suitable alley, leading to a ruined house that ensured them a nice place for a quiet talk. A fading brasero in a corner provided them with a dim light. He violently pushed Goncalves, who stumbled back onto the broken remains of a collapsed wall and fell heavily to the ground. Mulder was on him immediately and his fist knocked the man out before he could reach the knife in his pants pocket. The FBI agent carefully searched Cobra's body and relieved him of his blade as well as of the gun hidden in its ankle holster.

He sat on the lout's hips and started to wake him up with some harsh slaps on his emaciated face. Cobra came back to his senses to find himself on his back, with his wrists handcuffed and crushed onto the cutting stones, his midsection blocked by the weight of the American, and his own P38 stuck into the side of his neck. "Time to wake up, Pepe. We're going to have a little talk." The voice of the man on top of him sounded friendly but he didn't try to believe his ears.

Very cautiously, to avoid any mistake about his intentions, he spoke in a strangled voice. "You just ask, Gringo. What do you need?"

"Information. Two weeks ago, another *Gringo* came here. One-armed. You favoured him with some of your specialities. Remember?"

An uncontrolled smile escaped the man. "Green-eyes, you mean?" He fluttered his eyelashes knowingly at Mulder. "Of course, how should I forget? That kind of guy is too rare." His head banged onto the ground as the barrel of the gun slapped his jaw.

//Fuck// Mulder thought. //Now I must wait for him to wake up again//. But Cobra had a strong head and he swung it slowly with a grimace of pain. "Hey, Gringo, we're just talking. I'm answering your questions. What else do you want to know? Just ask."

Mulder tried to quiet the strong beating of his heart. The sight of the bastard pinned to the ground seemed to have revived it. "Who? Who paid you for that job?"

Goncalves stared at him, true confusion in his eyes. Then, slowly, he said, "He paid me to do it." Seeing that Mulder didn't grasp his words he made them clear. "Green-eyes. He paid for me to beat him."

Mulder screamed in his face, banging his head again and again onto the pebbles. "Whaaat? Are you crazy??? What do you mean? Talk!!!" Pepe Goncalves writhed under him and desperately jerked his legs, but his hips were tightly pinned to the ground and his handcuffed wrists remained crushed under his body. He closed his eyes as a clenched fist swung down to hit his cheekbone. He choked under the hand that clutched at his blood-soaked collar.

He fought to speak. "I swear! At first I just thought that he was one of these guys who wanted it rough. But before we left 'La Isola' I saw his face in the light. His eyes. And I understood I was wrong. That he was one of us."

Mulder frowned. "I mean, he scared me, he really did. 'Could have killed me with his one hand. And with an easy conscience, I'm sure. He took me to a quiet place, like this." Pepe vainly tried to turn his head to indicate the ruins surrounding them. "Then he gave me all the money he had in his wallet and he asked me to beat him. And not to touch his right arm. I took great care with this, you know." He shut up under Mulder's angry gaze.

He lowered his eyelids for a short while, then stared back at Mulder. "I don't know why he asked me. He seemed to be... dead inside. Just told me he had something to forget. That he wanted to be out of his mind. That he wanted me to keep him from thinking for a very, very long time. I remember," the man added, "I asked him why he didn't shoot himself. He said he wasn't allowed to, that he had things to do first."

Mulder's hold slightly weakened. He thought for a while, and resumed his questioning. "He just asked you to beat the shit out of him? What exactly did you do to him, for God's sake? Did you have to add," he shivered, "the burns, the... whipping?"

Goncalves nodded. "He paid for that too!" He wavered for a few seconds then confessed, "First, I just punished him, as like he asked. I beat him. I thought it would be enough. But I was wrong. He's the kind of guy who can stand a good deal. So he undressed and he asked me to whip him. He never stopped cursing me, all the time, in Spanish, in English, in Russian. It drove me crazy and I did what he said. Then I wanted to stop, because his chest and belly were all black and blue. But he ordered me to screw him. He made me use my knife at the same time." Pepe Goncalves tilted his head back as far as he could but the rocky ground prevented him from escaping another hit of the gun's butt. His lips began to bleed too.

"Go on."

He stared at the American in a panick, licking at his split lips, and obeyed. "First I just cut him very lightly, but then... I couldn't believe it, he was already a mess, and he pointed my own gun at me!" His voice rose in hysterics. "He was half unconscious, and he took my gun out of my holster, I didn't even see him doing it! He just looked at me over his shoulder, the gun straight at me, and he said, 'I'm sure you can do better than that.' And he was smiling, I swear!"

"And then?" Mulder's mouth was only a thin line.

Pepe kept trying desperately to avoid the gun pushing ever more deeply against his jaw. His strangled voice was almost inaudible. "Then I did as he asked. I cut him, on the back." The weapon insisted. "And the waist. The buttocks. I had to finish with his thighs. He asked for it! He would have killed me, I swear!" he repeated in abject terror. Facing the murderous eyes that pinned him down he concluded, "When I finished, I wanted to leave him there. But he half turned toward me, he was still conscious, he still held my gun on me. Then he told me that I wouldn't get away with it. That's how he said, Santa Maria! He said that..." Pepe gasped.

"What did he say?" Mulder coldly articulated.

"... that he didn't call *that* a rape. That I was unable to do a proper job of it. That's how he said it, Señor." Cobra had gone past shame a long time ago. "So he told me how to finish him. He ordered me to fuck him with my forearm, he had to explain to me, I'd never done that before, I swear. And I... I thought of the cigarette. I didn't know how to end it, I couldn't stand it any more, so I burnt him, on... his cock. I was right," he added hastily, "he fainted after the third burn."

Mulder kept silent for a very long time, waiting for his heartbeat to calm down as much as it could. But it couldn't. An idea crossed his mind. "He was found near the clinic. Do you know how?"

"Of course! He was unconscious. I couldn't leave him like that, in this street, damp with blood and urine and everything... Not one of us. If he was awake I would never have done it. He really scared me to death. But there, I told a friend to bring his truck; we pulled him into it and we brought him to the clinic. We left him outside, but not too far, with his stuff. We covered him with his jacket. T'was almost morning, I hoped they'd find him quickly enough. Did they?"

Mulder didn't answer.

"Huh, Señor? I beg your pardon," Cobra said incongruously. "Is your name Mulder?"

The FBI agent's eyes were icy cold. "And if it is?"

"Well, Green-eyes told me, before we began, that nobody would look for him here. But that if somebody ever did, it would be an American called Mulder. And that if the man asked me, I was to answer all his questions." He added, "He paid for that too."

"Then your task has been completed."

The American looked at him, and all life had left his eyes. Pepe Goncalves tensed his whole body as the P38 entered his open mouth. His teeth clenched around the barrel, and the shot tore the night apart.

Mulder kept silent and motionless above the corpse, looking at the black eyes that stared blindly at the night and at the rivulets of dark blood dripping from the dirty pebbles into the dust that drank them. He didn't feel any relief. He didn't feel anything. The first explosion of the fireworks starting at the other end of the town didn't even startle him. He just let himself slide down beside Cobra's dead body, his back to the lukewarm earth, his face to the indifferent heavens.

Rocket after rocket, the shimmering stars poured like a shower of fire through the darkness, making the tears that ran down his cheeks glitter like diamonds. Then a green rocket turned them to emeralds, but he couldn't see it. His eyes were shut tightly, filled with a far more precious shade of green.

(End of part 3)

 

* * *

 

TITLE: "Healing Blue"  
AUTHOR: Kand  
SERIES: "On Every Street" - 4/4 - Third stanza.  
CHARACTERS: M/K, Jeremiah Smith  
FANDOM: X-Files  
RATING: PG-17 (m/m explicit sex)  
SPOILERS: "Closure", but this is an AU.  
SUMMARY: The boys rejoin somewhere in time.  
DISCLAIMER: Characters belong to Chris Carter, 1013, Fox Productions. No infringement intended.  
AUTHOR'S NOTE : The idea of 'FreeZone' was borrowed from John Shirley's short novel of the same title (1985); and the two moons' one from the Corto Maltese album 'Tango' by the deeply lamented Hugo Pratt. Following the song till the end should have asked for a bittersweet end, not to say worse. But I'm definitely an optimist  
ARCHIVE: yes, just tell me.  
URL: http://www.geocities.com/kand2m/OES4.html  
FEEDBACK:   
BETA:so many thanks to Vanzetti!

* * *

\-------------------  
"Healing Blue"  
by Kand.  
\-------------------  
 a three-chord symphony crashes into space  
 the moon is hanging upside down  
 I don't know why it is I'm still on the case  
 it's a ravenous town  
 and you still refuse to be traced  
 seems to me such a waste  
 and every victory has a taste that's bittersweet  
 and it's your face I'm looking for on every street  
 (Marc Knopfler)  
\-------------------

(Mulder's office, 9:40 am)

Mulder was bent over one of the drawers of his filing-cabinet, pretending to put manila folders in order.

//Two more weeks and no news. He has to be somewhere. A broken leg. How can he deal with it? All alone? God.//

He slammed the drawer closed with an angry gesture and turned around to his desk. He froze as he caught a glimpse of the man standing on the other side of the table.

Jeremiah Smith.

Or the Bounty Hunter? He stiffened. He noticed that the door was still shut. He hadn't heard a single noise.

Jeremiah Smith smiled, a comforting smile as usual. He motioned Mulder to his own chair and drew up Scully's empty one to sit down.

"I'm sorry about your mother, Agent Mulder."

"Oh, yes. Thank you."

"Agent Mulder, it's hard to lose two dearly loved persons in a row."

"What do you mean?" //Alex. How does he know?//

"Mr. Krycek was of the utmost importance to the Rebels' alliance, as well as yourself."

Mulder didn't bother to comment.

"Such an emotional bond can be really useful. It's a pity that it drove him to self-destruction."

//He's dead.// "Is he...?"

"No! Agent Mulder. No, he's alive. We've cured his most serious injuries. But if the two of you continue to grieve in this highly *romantic* manner, you will be wasting enormous abilities."

"So? Can you heal love sickness?" Mulder chuckled bitterly.

"As a matter of fact, yes I can, but the main effort should be on your side. And it seems neither you nor him are disposed to undergo such a cure."

//He still loves me. Why doesn't he come back? Silly stubborn ass.//

"I think I understand that Slavic people are more inclined to romantic stubbornness than yourselves. Is that right?"

"Well..." //Did you say 'alien'? Where did he graduate in Earth Ethnography, for God's sake? Beta Centauri University??//

"Anyway, we need you to bring Mr. Krycek to a more cooperative attitude. I'm afraid," he countered Mulder's reaction, "that I can do nothing in this case. Only you can have some influence upon him."

"I don't know where he is at the moment."

"I do."

Mulder stood up at once, leaned over his desk, and grasped Smith's discreet tie bluntly. "Where is he? You must tell me!"

"I am here to do so."

Mulder fell back to his chair, the room spinning around him.

"Agent Mulder, have you ever heard of FreeZone?"

\--------------------------

(Alexandria, 11:20 am)

Mulder finished stuffing his duffel bag into the rear of the car, and took place in the driver's seat, next to Jeremiah Smith who was waiting very quietly in the passenger's one. "I wish I could call Scully. She's going to be mad at me and issue an APB if I'm missing without warning."

Jeremiah Smith waved a hand in denial. "I can assure you it won't be needed. You'll be back in *no* time..."

"But you tell me that 'FreeZone' is in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean!"

"There are temporal singularities occurring in this place, Agent Mulder. The time factor is essential here."

"Temporal singularities?"

"You'll see for yourself. But time itself can have its limits. Would you mind starting now? I'll show you the way as we go along."

Mulder turned the ignition key, then maneuvered the car to enter the traffic. "Maybe if you tell me now where we're going, I can avoid some of the jam, and..."

"I'm sorry, Agent Mulder. Things don't exactly work that way."

"Huh?"

No answer. Mulder sighed and drove silently, following the brief indications Smith gave him here and there. He was quickly lost, and they found themselves on a road bordering the Atlantic shore. He really didn't understand how they had reached the coast.

Or how it could be the dead of night already.

"Where are we?"

"On our way to FreeZone."

"I think I grasped the idea. But how?"

Jeremiah Smith raised a hand to show the dark sky. As Mulder didn't seem to understand, the healer stated, "The moon."

"Yes, the moon. So what? -- Hey?!"

He was leaning slightly on the steering wheel to look at the satellite, and he had just seen two moons.

His hands clutched at the wheel and he bent once more. //Yes. Two moons. Two twin crescents hanging in the starless sky. Spooky Mulder, that's me.//

"Oh no, you're not." Smith's voice caught his attention. "I told you there were singularities. Temporal ones, but some others too. Things will take their course when your mission is achieved. If you succeed, naturally."

"Naturally." Mulder remained silent for a few seconds. "And if I fail?"

"Then we will miss you both, really."

"Oh."

The trip came to an end about two hours later. They had followed the coast road the whole time to reach a small town at last: a fishing port that looked like a postcard in the double moonlight. It was weird to walk in the empty streets with two shadows leading him toward the wharf. The place was silent.

//I wonder if there are also two suns?//

Still reading his thoughts, Jeremiah Smith answered. "As far as you're concerned, it's always night here."

"Ah." Mulder was becoming a master of noncommittal answers.

Their next means of transportation appeared to be a cabin cruiser, very white, very modern, and as unremarkable as possible. Mulder considered it with a critical look. "We're going to FreeZone on that boat?"

"Yes, this is correct."

"You mean, we're going to cross half of the Atlantic Ocean on a cabin cruiser?"

"Yes."

"Naturally." //At least, I'll have a good reason to be seasick.// "Huh, you can cure seasickness, I presume?"

"Yes, I can. But it won't be necessary."

"No?"

"No."

Mulder embarked, holding his duffel bag tightly and already feeling slightly nauseous, even though as the boat didn't rock against her mooring. He was shown to a small cabin, and following Smith's advice he lay down. A few minutes later, he was sound asleep.

And he missed the whole trip.

\------------------------

(FreeZone, sometime in the night)

Mulder had disembarked from the cabin cruiser in a trance, leaving his luggage with the assurance that it would be returned to him when needed. He was yawning -and shaking his head didn't seem to bring any improvement.

He followed Jeremiah Smith along the mole, examining his surroundings.

He was definitely on an island. The tropical vegetation consisted essentially of palm trees, grape-trees and flamboyants, their blossom black and white in the double moonshine, and bushes of alamandas, crotons, and hibiscus.

Below the mole a white sand beach stretched up to a curve, with a row of small fishing boats leaning a few yards away from the first waves. The foam was gleaming, phosphorescent in the pale blue light. In the open sea, a broad stain of equally luminescent pink was floating lazily. The night was warm, damp, of a deep blue.

The neighboring island seemed strangely artificial.

"It is, Agent Mulder."

He took longer strides to match Smith's pace.

"This part of FreeZone," his guide showed the illuminated town in front of them, "is a volcanic island, a natural one. But that one," another gesture toward the dark silhouette punctuated with a few isolated lights, "is an ancient offshore platform. Several of them were united to form FreeZone. A kind of no-man's-land, anchored in international waters, and in the same way outside national laws. As the singularities began, this protection wasn't necessary anymore: FreeZone was out of laws of space and time. Then it was linked to this island, which fell in the singularity too."

"Naturally."

Smith threw a sidelong glance at Mulder but made no comments. "Now it's a place of traffic, but its uniqueness allows neutral meetings, discreet diplomacy, and that kind of thing."

//You don't say.//

They crossed the border of the town and Mulder was surprised by the buzzing activity everywhere. Shops were open. Worn old cars and brand-new ones mingled in the heavy, slow traffic. The sidewalks were filled with people. He tried to perceive a pattern emerging from the mixed crowd, but no clear picture rose to his mind. As busy as it looked, the town was strangely silent. People's mouths were moving, but there were no shouts. No cars honked. No rumble. Each time his eyes rose to the wrought iron balconies and the tiled roofs trimmed with wood, the two crescents stared at him in a mocking glare.

As he stopped to catch a better look into a less well-lighted alley, Smith took hold of his arm with authority and pulled him along. He had just enough time to see a black girl clad in a flowery dress falling with a silent scream, her throat open in a flow of dark blood.

Shaking, he let Smith drag him away.

"Forget the tourist postcard and the moonlight, Agent Mulder. This is a ravenous town. The sooner you meet with Mr. Krycek the better."

Mulder gripped his arm, his heart bouncing in its prison. "You mean, he's really here, somewhere in this town?"

"For what other reason should have I brought you here, Agent Mulder?"

//Alex. Here. Oh Jeez. Where?//

They reached a large avenue where the traffic flowed more freely. Jeremiah Smith stopped under an awning, his back to a store window that displayed exotic souvenirs. His hand still held Mulder's arm, and he motioned him to face the window. His gaze lost in the amount of multicolored pareos, giant fishes of carved wood, ironwork, naive paintings, jewelry, sculpture and pottery, the FBI agent listened to the briefing he was submitted to.

"We found the trail of Mr. Krycek in Mexico, a few days after he left La Rosita. We took him here, having convinced him that our intentions were honorable. One of the Rebels he was already acquainted with acted as our mediator. We knew Mr. Krycek would trust him - as far as he can trust anybody beyond yourself. He knew of this place. He has been several times here. To someone like him, FreeZone is a sort of safe haven. I met him here and healed him. It was necessary as he wasn't operational at all."

//You bet. My Alex. But if he doesn't want me to find him, maybe he's already gone.//

"No, Agent Mulder, he's still here. We have a deal. You see, Mr. Krycek knows many things, many people. If he doesn't work with us, he could become a real threat to the Rebellion."

"You mean you're going to kill him if he doesn't agree with you?" Mulder's eyes were bright with anger.

Smith raised both hands in protest. "Not if we can avoid it. There are milder ways to make him... less of a danger. But," he added in a stern tone, "if we can't do otherwise... You must understand, Agent Mulder. The security and lives of billions of persons are involved. We can't take a risk. I'm sorry."

Mulder's mouth was reduced to a very thin line. Between clenched teeth, he growled, "Hurt him, and..."

"And what?"

He shut up. //Yes, and what? What can I do? Shoot myself. I don't need them for that, at least.//

"Anyway, I think that between an unpleasant fate and living and fighting by your side, Mr. Krycek faced an easy choice. He's a very smart man. And he's not suicidal."

//And he loves me.// Mulder's breathing came back slowly to a more normal rhythm. "So, where is he? Why didn't he just come back to DC with you?"

"As I said, he's a clever man. And suspicious. And stubborn. He didn't want to be told to leave this place with anyone but you."

"Okay. Where?"

Jeremiah Smith's hand squeezed his arm lightly, making him turn around. He gestured toward a hotel on the other side of the street. "Fourth floor. Room 42."

Mulder stared at him in disbelief. "Are you kidding?"

Smith returned his stare with the uttermost seriousness. "No, I'm not."

\---------------------

Mulder is standing in front of a dark door. Tarnished golden figures read "42" in familiar calligraphy. His shaking hand tests the doorknob that turns easily, noiselessly, amazingly.

//He isn't here. Never would leave the door open.//

He pushes at it gently, lets it gape wide. No dragging. He's almost ready to see the usual turquoise glow of the fish tank on the right side. But the room is dark, except for the reflection of the moonbeam hitting the white wall on the other side of the street, which pours through the wide open window.

//Everything's open. He can't be here. No way.//

Then a crackling draws his attention toward the right side. Into the dimness the orange glimmer of a cigarette flickers, and the smell of smoke floats around him. Mulder has his gun in his hand before thinking of it.

//Cancerman! Nothing but a trap!//

But no patronizing retort greets his swift motion. Then, "They really want you to take me back, don't they?" The voice is tired, smoke veiled, but always honey silk sweet and a breathtaking turn-on that heals his haunting pain.

//Is that how you feel when you rise from the dead?//

A step toward a bed that his adjusting eyes begin to distinguish, another step, another one. As if the couch was retreating treacherously with each of them. Mulder still handles his gun. He can't think of anything else than the long, motionless shape on the bed, of the smell of the smoke in his flaring nostrils.

//Not Morleys. Nothing like the favorite brand of that s.o.b.//Something at the back of his mind is analyzing the unusual scent. //Spicy, bittersweet, almost a perfume; yet strong, rapturous. So much like *him*.//

An endless, stumbling trip brings Mulder to the edge of the mattress. His legs betray him, and he's on his knees, with his head on the heaving chest, his hands everywhere on Alex.

"Shhh, that's okay, everything's all right." Long and tender fingers stroke his hair. Then, "Let me get rid of that cigarette, Fox."

The hand leaves his hair, travels to the other side of the bed, delicately picks up the cardboard tube wedged between two plastic fingers and takes it back to the nightstand to crush the burning tip in an empty ashtray.

"You're smoking now?"

Alex chuckles at the incongruous question. "Always scared of fire, Mulder? Speaking of things hazardous to my health, would you mind putting this back where it belongs?" he adds, indicating the gun in Mulder's hand.

"Oh."

The weapon returns to its holster and Mulder sits down against the bed, his head close to Krycek's. The pale gleam of the double moon's reflected light sculpts the beloved features sharply and draws a shining line down on the fine pointed nose to fall on the tip of a tongue licking the well-formed lips. Dark eyes examine him untiringly and the hand is back to his hair, his temple, his forehead, his cheek, his mouth...

Mulder stays enthralled in the insistent stare and the sweet caress. His right hand moves of its own accord, crosses the chest to reach the leather belt, and pulls eagerly at the cotton shirt to gain access to the shivering skin. His fingers slip under the light fabric and begin a feverish search that immediately tears a painful yelp from the lips of his lover.

"Sorry, Fox. Not completely... healed."

Frowning, Mulder brushes the trembling lips with his own. "Jeremiah Smith told me he cured you."

"Yes, but it doesn't work exactly that way."

"What do you mean?"

"These guys act like an insurance company... They don't mess about with self-inflicted injuries, you see," Alex hisses softly. "So I was healed just enough to make me 'operational' again, as they put it. No more broken bones, no handicapping bruises. The rest..."

Mulder lets his head fall on the round shoulder. He resists the temptation to nibble or bite, not now. He just rubs his cheek lightly in the hollow of the neck. "You know what?"

"What?"

"Next time you want to be beaten to a pulp, do me a favor. ASK ME!"

Alex giggles. He begins to laugh, unable to help himself, and soon Mulder joins in. As he lifts a hand to wipe his eyes dry, Mulder sees a cardboard pack on the ground. He picks it up and raises it to the mattress. This is a square, flat box, creamy colored. He looks closer. On the lid a drawing shows an old limo parked at the foot of a monumental staircase, with a luxurious hotel behind.

Alex's hoarse voice explains, "Leningradskaïa".

"What?"

"Those cigarettes. Russian ones. My father had some left. I stole them when I began to smoke. I never forgot the taste of them. Surely they don't exist anymore, anywhere. I found them down there, in the hotel's hall. Couldn't resist. I quit smoking a long time ago, but when I saw them... But one's enough."

"Nostalgia will mangle you, babe."

"Not if you're here to save me." The solicitous fingers push back the chestnut lock that falls obstinately on his lover's forehead.

The snap of the shot, the whiz of the bullet and the crack of the scattered mirror send them to the ground in a single motion, still embracing.

Alex scrutinizes the black and white roof on the other side of the street: too many chimneys, shit.

A faint moan draws his attention to the man under him. Above closed eyelids, a thin dark rivulet of blood runs along the temple. //No. No. No.// "Fox! Do you hear me? Fox?" He fights not to scream, but to his own ears his whisper is a storm in the silent room.

The hazy gray eyes open slowly. Mulder frowns in pain, lifting his hand to his head. "Ouch."

"Fox, are you okay? Let me see!" A quick examination lets his breathing return to normal. "Just a scratch. Thank God. How do you feel?"

"Like you hit me, Krycek."

"Ah ah. Very funny." He can't help but grin when Mulder writhes under him. "And it turns you on?"

Another wriggle proves to him that yes, it does. "Fox. I don't want to disappoint you, but we hardly have the time for this."

"Hardly? I love your choice of words, Alex. And what's this?"

"Never heard of my supernumerary bone? 'Foxus Rectus' they call it."

"Krycek, you're a freak."

"Fox, please. Don't do that."

"Do what?" Mulder gently licks the neck above him, just once more.

"What you're *doing*, you sex maniac!"

Alex goes back to his roof-checking. "The guy must be on the left side." He gestures with his head. "My gun is under the pillow. Cover me. I'm going to get it."

He rolls over in a feline motion to free Mulder of his weight and his companion follows, drawing his own weapon in the same move. Krycek lifts his right hand with three fingers up, and lowers them one by one. On the third, Mulder begins to fire blindly toward the chimneys on the left side, while Alex rises to his knees and slips his hand under the white pillow, balancing his gesture with his inert left arm.

In a split second he's back to the ground under whizzing bullets, holding his Sig Sauer, and swearing a litany of curses. Both men are flat on their stomachs and it's Mulder's turn to voice his anxiety. "What's up? Are you hurt?"

"The bloody bastard broke my fingers!"

"Whaaat? Let me see! Oh. Your prosthesis."

"Yesss! This is the third one, and I'm becoming tired of having to get used to a new one each time!" Alex turns toward the sobbing shape close to his shoulder. He catches a glimpse of tears running on his lover's cheeks. Tears of laughter. "Thank you *so much* for sympathizing, Mulder."

"I'm sorry, Alex, I was so afraid... I thought you were hurt, and then..."

"Yes." The tone tries to be cold, but the attempt falls short.

A long sigh escapes Krycek's lips. "I was right."

"What about?"

"I'm putting your life in danger. The closer I am to you, the more you're at a risk. I can't stand it. I was right to leave."

"Alex?"

"Yeah?"

"You stubborn asshole. When will you understand that we're both in danger, anywhere, anytime? Together or parted?"

"Hunh."

"No hunh! And the way I see it, we're in greater danger when separated. At least, I am."

"How that?"

"Because I can't think of anything else but you. I cannot think at all, in fact."

"But..."

"No *but* either. Now you're going to stay with me. And you will cover my ass. And I'll cover yours. Krycek, if you refuse, I swear I'll..."

"Yeah?"

"I... I don't know, I'll knock you out and handcuff you to my bed. Or I'll put you in a safe, the safe in a cellar, and I'll swallow the key. Anyway you won't be able to refuse me anything anymore."

Alex laughs quietly, then, "You ask so kindly, Mulder. How could I say no?"

"Don't call me that."

"What?"

"Mulder. I'm Fox to you, remember?"

"Oh yes. My clever Fox. But don't call me Krycek."

"Yes. Alex. -- Alex?"

The lovely head turns to face him.

"I love you."

"Fox. You have a wonderful timing, you know that?"

Nothing moves on the roof. In the half dark room, the two men are consulting each other with questioning glances.

"How do we get out of here?"

Krycek nods towards the door. "The corridor. You came from the staircase on the left."

"Yeah."

"On the other end there's a second one - backstairs. It climbs down to a small door, leading to this street." A glance of the green eyes toward the window. "Yet the moon will be behind us. We have to stay in the shadow and follow the alley to the left side. There's a maze of narrow streets up there."

Skirting Mulder, Alex crawls slowly on the ground and reaches the single chair in the room. He pulls cautiously at the leather jacket hanging on it. Mulder emits a muted laugh. "Another one? You're the man of one model?"

Alex turns a baffled face to him. "This is the only one. I found it here when entering the room for the first time. I thought you'd been in before me then. But Smith just told me you were on your way. I concluded you gave it to him as proof of your agreement." He chuckles. "I even found some sunflower seeds in the left pocket..."

"Well, I wore it. Sometimes." Mulder shakes his head in disbelief. "But it was in my closet when I left. One more singularity, I guess."

Alex gives him a puzzled look, but he's quickly back to his attempt. He succeeds in making the jacket slip to the ground and contorts himself to get inside it. Fox does his best to help him, but he rises too high and a shot explodes in the night.

He is instantly back, flat to the ground.

"Fox--?" It seems angst is getting its own way in Alex's voice now.

"I'm okay. Seen the angle? The guy's moved."

"Or there are two of them."

"Fuck."

"Later, I promise."

"Shhh."

"Listen, I'm going to open the door. You have to cover me. Enough ammo?"

"Yeah, but this is no good. *I*'m going to open the door," Mulder asserts.

"Why?"

"'Cause you need your hand. I can do with only one."

Alex is about to protest, but he knows that Mulder is talking sheer common sense. He nods and creeps back to face the window. He gathers his dead limb in front of him, frowning at the shredded plastic fingers, and steadies his Sig Sauer, marking the right side of the roof. "When you want."

Mulder rolls over and over swiftly toward the door, and stops at a few inches away from it. He gets ready to raise himself up on his right arm.

"Fox!"

"Yeah?"

"Watch out! The lock is mounted upside down. Turns the wrong way."

"Now you tell me." A deep breath. "Okay, at the count of three. One. Two... Three."

Krycek launches a true barrage fire, drenching the whole roof as Mulder rises, catches the knob, turns it and draws the door ajar in one fluid motion. He's back to the ground, under a shower of scattered plaster falling from the wall behind them. Alex's cheek rests on the ground and his grin reassures the older man. "I had the one on the left side," his tousled head gestures toward the roof. "Those guys know how to entertain the tourists, don't they?"

Mulder waits. He stares at Krycek's hand as it lays his gun down in front of him, rummages in his pocket, comes back with a new magazine, wedges the gun under the half broken one, and reloads. He quivers lightly at the sight of the long fingers performing their skillful ballet. //Those fingers of his. So smart. Coldly efficient at handling his P220, and so tenderly clever when they closed around me that unique, unforgettable night.//

Alex's eyes glance at him, questioning wordlessly.

Mulder nods. The next move doesn't prove to be so easy. Half rolling over, half crawling, keeping a low profile, turn by turn they reach the open doorway, each of them covering the other. It seems the snipper doesn't have much visibility below a certain level. The roof is only a third of a floor above them. And the bastard is at a disadvantage, shooting against the moonlight.

Mulder pulls the door open gently, giving the signal for a new barrage that hits the wall right above them. He crawls in the entrance but his body in the middle of the doorway is a better target - the bullets hit closer to his head, and Alex fires back.

//No more time for finesse.// Mulder kicks the door wide open with his foot and rolls away at once in the corridor, leaving room for Alex to follow him. He also understands that the same maneuver will be less easy to his lover, and he kneels in the shadow to take over.

"Alex! Move your ass, for Christ's sake!"

"Swift as the wind, honey."

Under the cross shooting, Krycek rolls over too and reaches the corridor as the firing line lowers with a lethal precision.

They're sitting on each side of the door, panting. Two great dark pools of concern catch Mulder's eyes. //Not now. Don't look at me that way, please.//

"Ready for the next ride?"

"Time to reload." Mulder fixes his gun, as Krycek checks his own quickly. "This hotel is awfully quiet. I'll recommend it."

"As long as you don't lean over the window."

Mulder is still on the wrong side of the door. He crouches, then crosses the open field with one jump, landing in Krycek's lap. His lover hardly resists the urge to hold him tightly with his good arm. A deep look will do for a hug.

"The staircase door is the last one on the right," Alex explains.

At last they can stand up. Mulder's head swims a little bit, but Krycek leads him toward the corridor's end. They climb down the narrow flight of stairs in haste and stop behind the street door. Its upper part is glass paneled, and the two of them study the roof four floors higher. Tiles and chimneys play a sharp game of shadow theater. Patches of dark are cut at odd angles, above the plain white wall. No windows.

Krycek turns his ivory face toward his lover's. They stand away from the door, just beyond the fringe of the moonshine's reflected light. They're still invisible to the remaining snipper.

Alex leans very slowly and his parted lips cover Fox's mouth, drinking his breath, his smell, his taste. //How could I think I'd be able to live without him?// His eyes shut tight. The swollen lips answer him so lovingly. //Too much. I can't stand it. You're going to fade into mist. Each time I dream of your lips under mine, you do.//

The broad dark eyes reopen and Alex's breathing deepens. Fox's face is still here.

A gentle hand pushes him back a little. "Alex. We must go."

"Right."

A last brush, flesh against flesh, promising a rendez-vous wherever they reach.

Krycek lets Mulder take a step toward the door. He hates to let him walk out first, but he knows that himself can't handle the door and his gun at the same time.

The Sig Sauer above his shoulder, Mulder reaches for the doorknob, turns it gently, and opens the door.

No reaction.

A few inches more.

Still nothing.

//I don't like this. Surely he can't miss the light moving on the glass. Fox, Fox, please, take care.//

Mulder slams the door fully open and, feeling confident under Krycek's protection, takes a step in the shadowy street. A single shot makes him jerk and bump in the wall. Krycek brushes past him and stumbles on the pavement, suddenly in the lighted part. A second shot - and Mulder stares in horror at the slender silhouette turning slowly in the moonlight, falling to his knees. There's a look of surprise in the green-forest eyes, a little black hole in the middle of the smooth forehead. The wheels in his mind catch a glimpse of the twin shadows dancing and sliding along the white wall, while his love slips endlessly to the ground. In a single motion he's by his side, leaning over the lifeless body, a hand clinging the lapel of the leather jacket. Without thinking he raises his head and shoots blindly, a whole clip, in the direction of the roof. A shout answers from above him. A metallic glint flashes as a gun hits the ground, followed by the dark shape of its owner who crashes on the pavement with a low thump. Mulder's head hurts. His heart is shredded into athousand sharp pieces which go slashing through his flesh and he curls into himself in unbearable agony. His hands shake Krycek's heavy corpse. "Agent Mulder!" He turns to face Jeremiah Smith without even seeing him. The sad silhouette is standing at the end of the street, gesturing to him. Mulder doesn't understand. What does he mean? Nothing can mean anything. His head hurts so much.

Mulder bumps in the wall, surprised by the shot. Alex's silhouette brushes past him and stumbles on the pavement in the light of the moonshine. Mulder jumps on him and makes him fall as the second shot explodes in the blue tropical night. Krycek yelps and twists in his arms, then stares at him with a surprised look, a rivulet of dark blood broadening on his temple, drenching his cheek, his chin, his neck. He clutches at Mulder, taking him along into his slow fall. On the white wall their four shadows spiral down. Mulder helps his lover to the ground. "Fox, my Fox..." Krycek seems more and more surprised, and then his broad forest-green eyes drown blindly in Mulder's own. His lover is keeping hold of his warm body when he hears a noise above his head. In pure reflex he lifts his right hand and fires, three times. The fall of the gun to the ground is immediately followed by by the sound of its owner falling in turn. Mulder doesn't pay attention to the low thump of the corpse hitting the ground. He stays just drowned in the fringed dead eyes. "Agent Mulder!" He turns to see Jeremiah Smith at the end of the street, gesturing to him in a way he can't understand. And his head hurts so much.

The shot makes Mulder jump. He bumps into the wall, and his sharp motion surprises Krycek who reaches for him and stumbles on the threshold of the door.

"Noooooooo!" Mulder screams. He grabs at the leather jacket, causing Alex to whirl and face him with a puzzled look. They fall entangled and the second shot hits Krycek who jerks in Fox's arms.

"Fucking bastard!" Mulder fires toward the chimneys' black and white angles, far above, and his shot is answered at once by the clang of a gun dropping to the ground. The dark silhouette of the snipper falling down is of no comfort to him. He leans over the body against his chest and stares into Alex's raging eyes...

"Those pricks really have something against prosthesis, or what! This time it's completely ruined, shit!"

Mulder rises to his knees and contemplates the white wall, on which the very ordinary moonlight draws a single shape, his own. His eyes come back to the green-eyed fury writhing on the ground, cursing at him.

"What the fuck crossed your mind, Fox? You could have killed us both ! I can't believe it! Is this what you call covering my ass?!"

Mulder is bent in two, as he laughs all his heart out, drawing a new string of obscenities from Alex's mouth. "Fox! Fox!!! Are you crazy, or what?! You silly ass! I should break your bones for that!"

In a hiccup of laughter Mulder answers, "You may break my bones one by one, and as often as you wish! As long as you don't break my heart... Oh my God, Alex, when I saw..."

"Agent Mulder!"

They both turn to face Jeremiah Smith, coming to them from the end of the alley.

"Mr. Krycek. You're safe. At last."

"Yes, I'm safe, and no thanks to 'Agent Mulder'! You're really sure we have to work together? What?"

Krycek stops as he sees the looks of deep relief that Jeremiah Smith and Mulder exchange. Then they both stare at him with the same relief.

//Are they mad?//

"Dear Mr. Krycek, I'm definitely sure you have to." Smith smiles to Mulder, then in a thoughtful tone he says, "Interesting, the way you've been able to manipulate the time factor."

//Time factor?// "Could somebody, please, explain to me what's going on?"

Fox helps Alex to his feet. "Later, babe. I'll tell you. Or at least I'll try." He grabs the younger man's shoulders and takes him suddenly in a breathtaking kiss that makes Alex forget his questions temporarily. When the long sable eyelashes rise again, the green fire has melted into kinder feelings. Seeing the hazel-gray eyes filled with concern and love manages to soothe Krycek.

A polite cough draws the two men from their trance.

"Gentlemen, I think it's time to go home. You must go to Piter's Beach; you know the way, Mr. Krycek. Near the mole Telume, you'll find a fishing boat waiting for you. She's called 'San-Jorge'. It's appropriate, for you have many dragons to defeat still. Her captain will take you to the Azores. Our correspondent will wait for you at Punta Delgada and see to all accommodations."

"Agent Mulder, you would be most useful back at the X-Files as soon as possible." He turns to Alex. "Mr. Krycek, I hope you've understood that you are of no interest to us half-dead. Having you in Washington and available, freely cooperating with Agent Mulder, would be far better."

Krycek cocks his head to Mulder. //Cooperate? That's what he calls it?//

Fox grins widely at the mischievous look in the ocean-green eyes. "I'll see that he behaves, Mr. Smith," he answers, squeezing the strong leathered shoulder. "So, Alex, I'd be glad to enjoy the island tour. Where's that beach?"

\-------------------

The two men are sitting in the sand, under a palm tree, fifty yards from the mole Telume. Beside it they can see the 'Sao-Jorge', and the crew preparing her for her trip to the Azores.

Krycek stands up, takes off his jacket, lets it fall to the ground, and walks toward the sea, under the curious gaze of Mulder. Fox sees the tall silhouette taking off the prosthesis and throwing it into the waves. Then Alex comes back and kneels beside him, explaining, "It was so damaged that it was more of a nuisance."

He nestles in Fox's lap and rubs his cheek against the warm chest. "You'll have to help me to keep my balance. Will you?"

"Do you think I'll be able to do it?"

//If you can't, who can?// "What are you looking at, Fox?" Alex follows his lover's stare. "The moon?"

"Yeah. There's only one."

"Fox? Does your head still hurt?"

Mulder sinks into anxious dark eyes. "No, why? It was just a little scratch."

"Fine. And there's only one moon?"

"Yeah. It's wonderful, isn't it?"

"Yes, Fox. It's wonderful. Did I miss a chapter somewhere?"

Mulder looks at his lover's features thoughtfully. Suddenly the fatigue overwhelms him. "We'll do the explanations later, if you don't mind."

"Fox, you're sure you're okay?"

"Oh yes. I feel perfectly okay. Trust me." Mulder takes hold of Alex's hand and put it right across his crotch. "Do you believe me?"

"Oooh." Then, "Hmmmm, I always dreamed of making love on a tropical beach in the moonlight. Even under a single moon."

The hazel eyes, darker in the blue night, gaze down at him, holding sweet promise and burning fire mingled. Alex lifts his head, reaching for the lips that part for him. His tongue probes tenderly, licking with little teasing strokes, slipping along the teeth, searching for its mate to suck at it lasciviously, exploring the whole mouth that can't hold back trembling moans. Fox's encircling arm squeezes him with a rhythmic motion matching the caress on his crotch.

At last he gasps under the warm mouth, pleading for more serious stimulation. Alex skilled fingers unbutton the jeans' waistband, unzip them swiftly, and slip under the fabric of his boxers to close around the swollen member, making Fox's hips buck violently. His thumb picks up a little drop of moisture at the tip and he can't resist the delicate pleasure of tasting it.

Leaving the whimpering mouth that chants his name, he leans on his lover's groin and his tongue licks gently at the flushed head, sending wave of fire through the older man's limbs. Under the pressure of the hand firmly holding his head, he willingly engulfs the whole length of his Fox; the purring sounds he makes send low vibrations along the shaft, adding to the swirl of feelings Mulder is drowning in.

But the warmth of the mouth is soon replaced by the tepid air of the night, as Alex rises to draw fiercely on the jeans and the boxers. Mulder's eyes open to see his lover undressing him with determination. The dark green look meets his, then a sad grin stretches the swollen lips.

"I'm sorry; I have nothing to prepare you with. We left in a hurry, remember?"

"Alex? I don't give a damn."

"Fox. I wish I fucked you. But I don't want to hurt you."

"And I *want* you to fuck me. And there's only one way you can really hurt me. You can fuck me dry, it'll be nothing beside what you did to me with that Rosita thing. Or when you d..."

His mouth is shut down by devouring lips as Alex kneels between the spread legs, wailing as Fox's hands free him by pulling his pants at half thighs, then seize his cock and his balls, rubbing and squeezing him tenderly.

"You really sure?" Alex pants.

"C'mon, babe! If you don't do me now, I swear I'll shut you in a safe, put the safe in a cellar, swall..."

"Okay, okay," Alex chuckles. Moaning and twisting under Fox's firm caress, he gives him his fingers to suck before reaching down to the tight rim. A whimper of contentment vibrates in Fox's throat as he yields slowly around Alex's digit. When it reaches his prostate, he weeps softly against Alex's mouth, his hips lifting against the invading finger, clamoring for more.

Alex wishes he had time enough to indulge in more thorough preparation, but he feels so close... He quickly adds a second finger to perform a scissoring motion that is sufficient to stretch his eager lover. He takes his fingers out with a calming "Shhh" to silence Mulder's protest. He spits upon them rapidly and moistens his cock, helped by the warm hands that still hold him.

When he steadies his hips to adjust himself against Fox's opening, his lover lifts a leg on his shoulder to give him better access, and he pushes the head of his cock gently till the rim gives way to his sturdy desire. He tries to moderate his movements, but taking hold of his waist, Mulder lifts up his pelvis and impales himself in a single thrust with a loud scream.

"Fox, my love... Take it slow, baby... Breathe, please..."

Mulder's chest heaves and he clutches at his lover. His hazel eyes open wide, shining in the moonlight, tears gathering at the corners, and his hand moves to the rear of Alex's neck to pull him in a savage kiss, ravaging his lips, his tongue, his whole mouth. The swollen lips leave him just a while, time to beg.

"Take me, please, Alex. Deeper, harder. Give me all you can, please, oh please... Alex..."

The maddening voice resounds in the young man's ears. The mouth pleads along his. The hips thrust against him, and the tight rim squeezes him so strongly. He loses control and begins to slam again and again in the willing hot flesh. In the haze that shrouds him, Alex feels his lover's hand reach for his own abandoned hardness. A brief wave of regret runs through him as he wishes he has still both his hands to worship his Fox. His moves become erratic and even more wild, but he finds enough strength to summon his lover.

"Fox, open your eyes, please, I want to see you coming. Do it for me..."

Mulder forces his eyelids to lift and he falls into the green depths he's been so afraid to lose forever. He screams uncontrollably as Alex's skillful cock hits his prostate with each shove, and under the strong hand that milks him inexorably. He feels the pleasure pulsing in his loins and rushing in a compelling flood through his rod, splashing finally on their joined hands.

His eyes stay riveted to Alex's emerald flames. And as his muscle repeatedly crushes his lover's member, he drives him to his climax, never releasing his gaze. This is Alex who, out of balance, leans on his lover's chest, sobbing his relief with meaningless tiny cries. Eventually Mulder lowers his shaky leg to the sandy ground, and encircles the weeping killer in loving arms, rocking him while scattering calming kisses on the silky dark hair.

As Alex's sobs subside slowly, Mulder's mouth reaches his fine pointed ear and his warm voice begins:

\- "Once upon a time, there was a mysterious island in the middle of the ocean. And above this island a double moon hung upside down, because dark powers had parted a couple of lovers and warriors who were meant to live and fight together forever..."

(The End.)

\---------------------------------  
http://marillier.nom.fr/

  
Archived: April 21, 2001 


End file.
